


The North Wind's Howl

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Loud Sex, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's nothing like this during the day. Sansa's every sound is gentle and soft: the heavy brush of her skirts, the sweet lilt of her voice, the careful offering of her opinions. Even her tread is quiet. Sometimes she creeps up on him like a mouse, startling him as he struggles to make sense of ledgers or reads through yet another crofter's letter complaining about the ban on hunting any of Nymeria's ever-growing pack of wolves, no matter how much they threaten livestock or dig up carefully cultivated gardens.</p>
<p>No, Sansa is entirely the opposite of loud, and Jon thinks part of her almost despises him for how very loudly he makes her scream in their bed at night. But then, she loves it too. She may never admit it, but Jon's absolutely sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The North Wind's Howl

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: They are both quiet and soft spoken during the day, but they each love to make the other as loud as possible at night!

She's nothing like this during the day. Sansa's every sound is gentle and soft: the heavy brush of her skirts, the sweet lilt of her voice, the careful offering of her opinions. Even her tread is quiet. Sometimes she creeps up on him like a mouse, startling him as he struggles to make sense of ledgers or reads through yet another crofter's letter complaining about the ban on hunting any of Nymeria's ever-growing pack of wolves, no matter how much they threaten livestock or dig up carefully cultivated gardens.

No, Sansa is entirely the opposite of loud, and Jon thinks part of her almost despises him for how very loudly he makes her scream in their bed at night. But then, she loves it too. She may never admit it, but Jon's absolutely sure of it.

"Jon," she cries out now. "Joooo-oooohhhh!" Her voice tips up into a banshee wail that echoes against the stone walls as her thighs close tightly around his ears. They muffle the sound of her pleasure, but Jon can still hear it and it sets something heavy and feral and _good_ beating in his veins, throbbing in his painfully hard cock. _He's_ doing this to her. _He_ makes her scream and cry out and babble incoherent pleas and praise to gods old and new, Jon, her former bastard half-brother. Jon has known some power in his life -- the power of the Stark name behind him, the power of the Lord Commander's post, the power of a strong sword arm and a snarling beast at his side -- but not one of them ever made him feel so alive as the power he has to dismantle this one girl into a gloriously screaming succubus.

When she comes, her hips arch up off the bed, taking him with them. He takes the opportunity to get his face at her more, boosting her up by the arse and tonguing her with new vigor. She comes again almost instantly, and Jon knows she has another in her, so he closes his lips around the sensitive knot of her clitoris and sucks.

"Fuck!" she shrieks. "Oh! Jon, fuck, that's- _Jon._ " A torrent of words and sounds spill from her lips. Jon laps up each one as he laps at her cunt, savoring all of it, treasuring it, counting himself the luckiest man alive.

She's got a pillow over her face when he comes up for air, wiping her from his face and licking his fingers. Gods, but she is the tastiest little thing. A low sound is coming from under the pillow, something that he might think was weeping if he didn't know better. If her heels weren't still hooked over his arms like she'd die before letting him move away. Jon kisses the inside of each thigh and crawls up to lie beside her.

"You really ought to be quieter, you know," he says, elbow on the mattress next to her, head propped on his hand. "Arya was complaining the other day. She said you sounded like... What was it again? Oh yes, a mare in heat."

"Arya can go jump in a lake," comes the hot - if muffled - retort. "And I'm not speaking to you. I _hate_ you." Jon laughs and makes a tutting noise, tugging the pillow out of her grip. She merely transfers her hands to cover her face, her cheeks a deep pink where they're visible. Jon kisses each knuckle in turn. When she shifts the heels of her palms apart just enough to uncover her mouth, a silent offer of her lips for his kiss, something warm and liquid ruptures and spreads in his chest, pressing on his lungs and making it almost hard to breathe.

"That's not what you were saying a few moments ago," he points out.

"It's what I'm saying _now_ ," she hisses. She peeks through her fingers at him and then gives an outraged cry at his smug grin. The mattress shifts and jostles as she twists to lie on her side, her back to him, something of a cold shoulder, but Jon knows Sansa well enough now that he doesn't take it as dismissal. Especially not when she sneaks a glance back at him over her shoulder and wriggles her hips back against his.

"So you'll not look at me now?" he asks. Her thigh is like silk as he slides his hand up to her waist where her nightrail is bunched.

"I don't think I shall." It makes him smile, it sounds so like the prissy Sansa of old. Jon wonders what that Sansa would think of herself now, sharing a bed and a name and a life with him. 

"I suppose I'll have to carry out my marital duty like this, then," he says. He slides his hand over her arse, down between her legs, and over her cunt in a quick caress -- one that she gasps at -- before hooking his arm under her leg and raising it over his hip as he slides inside her from behind.

"I suppose-" she starts, before the word cuts off in a high-pitched whine. "Oh! I...I suppose you shall." The working of her hips back against him belies the coolness of her words. Her hand snakes behind her to find his nape and twine roughly into the shorter hair underneath. He feels the tug of her fingers there all the way down to his cock. It makes him drive into her with a sudden snap of her hips and again the sound of her pleasure is bouncing off the walls around them.

"I'd better install a heavier door or Arya won't let me hear the end of it," he rasps, torn between laughing and groaning at the feel of her, at the sweet pulse of her flesh around him. "She-"

"You may like it when I'm loud, Jon Snow," Sansa interrupts, "but right now, I'd really rather you shut up about Arya and fuck me until I can't move."

Now it's Jon's laughing groan that echoes around the chamber as he does just what Sansa asks.


End file.
